


Consequences of a drugged delirium

by umbrafix



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Drug-Induced Sex, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:44:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem, Fred Thursday thought, was not that it had happened, but that he couldn’t get it out of his head. </p><p>(or: Morse is drugged with an aphrodisiac on a case, Thursday takes care of him)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Thursday remembers

**Author's Note:**

> I just found this show and it's amazing! And then I found all the fic, and have seen Morse get whumped in every possible way, with Thursday as his touchstone the whole way through. Thought I'd add to the pile.
> 
> Please note: this contains gratuitous use of not-really-explained plot devices because of reasons. I'm not even going to try and guess what drug might affect someone like this, or if one even exists. It is purely a fictional device.
> 
> Also - the dub con warning is because of drugged-ness

_“Please, sir, please.”_

 

The problem, Fred Thursday thought, was not that it had happened, but that he couldn’t get it out of his head. He’d tried, God, he’d tried, but three days of burying himself in work, denial, and alcohol later he’d still got no further than sitting in his darkened kitchen late at night, drowning his sorrows.

 

The scotch glinted in the glass as he swirled it. Win was fast asleep in bed, had been for hours. Fred should join her, wrap an arm around her, breathe in the smell of safety and home and get some sleep. The past few nights informed him that the effort would bring nothing but lying there for hours, tense as a board, while his mind ran in endless loops.

 

It had been the right thing to do. He knew it had. The only thing to do. Now Fred just needed to forget about it and move on.

 

_“Please.”_

 

Morse’s hands had been cut and bloody from the broken glass the lad had fallen in. His eyes, highlighted in the bars of fading sunlight falling through the curtains, had been wild. It was the desperate keening, though, which had done Fred in. He’d had no idea what had been in the powder which had exploded into Morse’s face. No idea what would happen to the lad if he couldn’t get him to a hospital. But there was no way to get to one – the car sabotaged, the phone line down.

 

At first, it hadn’t seemed a problem, Morse had shaken off Thursday’s concern and said his hands would be fine until they finished searching the property. And later… later Fred couldn’t have left Morse like that, shaking and trembling and _hurting_ , he just couldn’t have.

 

_“You care about that boy.”_  Win’s words echoed around his head. She’d been trying to talk him into inviting Morse in for breakfast when he came to pick Fred up. She approved; that he’d found someone at work to connect with again, that he’d talked with pleasure about some of Morse’s funnier escapades (breaking his own rule about work talk a little because the lad wasn’t half daft sometimes and made for good anecdotes). And Fred had married a wonderful, loving woman who mothered people automatically.  _“So let’s take good care of him.”_

Maybe there was a moment that day when Fred could have walked away. When he could have shut Morse into a room in that godforsaken farmhouse, ignored his cries, and hoofed it down the road until he had found his way back to the village and called for help. Maybe. It didn’t feel like it though.

 

Fred could still remember the flush on the lad’s cheeks, the glassiness of his eyes, the soft pink of his parted lips. The smears of blood that Morse had left on Thursday’s shirt as he tried to fist his hands in it. His fear and confusion. His trust. His uninhibited cries of pleasure.

 

It had started slow, at first. Morse had wavered a bit, reaching a hand out blindly to leave a bloody handprint on the nearest wall. “Think I need to sit down, sir.” Then the dizziness got worse, the poor lad sweating and shaking and his eyes growing quietly panicked at the loss of control.

 

Fred had felt helpless. Utterly helpless, and afraid. Every time Morse took a tumble, every time he was stabbed or shot or beaten up or flung himself recklessly into danger, Fred was reminded all over again of the agony of Mickey Carter’s death. Though now it was beyond that, Morse was so much more than a good bagman, more than a shadow of Mickey. He’d wormed his way past Thursday’s shields long ago. And then this, some drug wreaking havoc on his system that Fred couldn’t fight. That he couldn’t help with.

 

Until he could.

 

It had been the right thing to do.

 

Morse had tried to hide it, of course, once he realized what was happening. Hunched in on himself on the sofa, tried to quiet his breathing, tried to get Thursday to leave. And then, as it got worse, as Fred had forced him to straighten out to check him for injuries, Morse had turned his face away in humiliation - forcing out a self deprecating joke about aphrodisiacs. Fred hadn’t known what to say.

 

Maybe that was the moment he should have left.

 

But the moment after that was the moment that Morse palmed himself through his trousers and cried out in pain at the state of his hand.

 

“Please, sir,” Morse had said, his face rosy as embarrassment gave way to desperation and he panted harshly though chapped lips. Fred could tell that he’d wished the words unsaid as soon as they were spoken. “Sorry, sorry.” And then the lad had reached for himself again, seemingly unable to stop, and made a high pitched, agonized noise. He didn’t pull his hand away this time though, kept going, and tears of pain streaked unnoticed down a face contorted in pain.

 

Fred hadn’t been able to take it; had pulled Morse’s bleeding hand away. And then there they were, a snapshot in time forever frozen in his memory. “Please, sir,  _please_. _”_

 

And Morse’s paralyzing embarrassment afterwards, the stifling silence as they walked 5 miles down the road in the dark to the nearest village, that was just a temporary thing. The lad would get over it- no different to being helped back to his rooms, or patched up after a wound. Just one copper helping another.

 

And if, the following morning, Monday morning, when Morse was back in the station for the first time after. After. If Thursday was slightly disappointed that his bagman’s eyes were clear, untroubled, that there was no trace of a blush on his cheeks and no hitch in his breath. If Fred’s fingers twitched at the memory of smooth bare skin when Morse’s jacket gaped and revealed his rumpled, untucked shirt. Well, that was nobody’s business but his own.


	2. At the Farmhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going back in time, we see what actually happened after Morse got drugged. Lots of Thursday comforting and taking care of Morse.

A little light-headedness was easy to write off. It had been a long day, and before that a long night after a long day. There seemed to be a lot of those in the police force.

 

Upstairs was clear, and they’d aborted the search in the cellar after Morse’s accident. Though Morse rather suspected it may have been a trap.

 

They finished another room, and the dizziness got worse; Morse had to concentrate harder than he ought just to put one foot in front of another. His hands hurt too – the bleeding had stopped but the cuts pulled at every movement, and it was hard to remember to keep them still. He could still do his job though; could still find what they were here for.

 

“Morse!” He’d walked straight into DI Thursday’s back, too focused on his feet to notice what was going on in front of him. For all that he was right on top of the man, Thursday’s outline was rather fuzzy.

 

“You alright lad?” Thursday asked him gruffly, and Morse blinked at finding the inspector’s face close to his own. When had Thursday turned around?

 

“Yes, sir,” Morse said, trying to inject as much assurance into his voice as possible. He’d never hear the end of it if he fainted just because of a few cuts on his hands.

 

He blinked again, and Thursday was halfway across the room, outlined by thin beams of sunlight. Morse started after him, legs feeling unexpectedly weak.

 

“The bastard’s long gone,” Thursday commented from near the window, and Morse startled for no reason, as though the words had been shouted. He stilled himself immediately, feeling his cheeks redden, but Thursday hadn’t noticed. “Still, there might be some clue in here where he’s got to.”

 

Morse walked slowly around the study, trying to spot anything useful, constantly reminding himself not to touch anything in case he got bloody fingerprints on it. The man they were hunting didn’t seem particularly organized, there had to be something here they could use. Morse rubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe away the blurriness.

 

Dimly he registered the sound of Thursday’s voice, except it sounded a bit like he was underwater. The world tilted sideways a bit, and Morse finally processed that something was rather wrong. His hand slammed into the wall for support a moment later, and pain ripped through him as wounds reopened.

 

“Think I need to sit down, sir,” he said, and it didn’t sound like his voice.

 

“Morse? Morse!”

 

A strong arm came around his back, steered his lurching steps until he could sink down onto something soft. Sofa, his mind said sluggishly. “I-“ he started, but the thought didn’t finish itself, and his brain flitted from one though to the next without allowing him to focus at all. “Can’t…” he tried again.

 

“It’s alright, lad, it’s alright. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Thursday’s voice grounded him somehow, and Morse opened his eyes.

 

The room looked like it had before, and yet not. All of the same things were there: desk, chair, lamp, shelves, cabinet. But they warped around the edges and had gained unexpected colours; some of them seemed green and purple at the same time which hurt his head.

 

“Don’t feel so good, sir,” he managed, and it was an effort to get the words out in the right order.

 

He felt Thursday sigh above his head. Above? He’d slumped sideways on the sofa, head resting on the scratchy fabric of a jacket, feet still on the floor. “I can see that, Morse.”

 

Morse stared at the opposite wall unblinkingly and swallowed. His throat felt dry. He tried to swallow again, but this time he couldn’t, and his throat felt drier and drier and he couldn’t swallow because there was no moisture in his mouth, and his breath came in rasping pants which he couldn’t control, and –

 

“Easy, lad. Easy there.” The fabric under his head moved with the words, and Morse realized somewhat belatedly that it was still attached to Thursday, that he had toppled sideways onto his DI and was using his shoulder as a pillow. God. He made a jerky motion to sit upright, quickly aborted when his vision blurred and threated to blacken entirely.

 

Morse finally swallowed, and the band constricting his chest and throat seemed to ease a little. “Powder,” he croaked, almost without knowing why.

 

“Bollocks.” Morse watched the dust motes dance patterns in the sunlight. They seemed to leave little fiery trails behind them. “Need to get you to a doctor.” Morse blinked, and the effect was gone. “Morse?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“I said we need to get you to a doctor. Maybe a hospital. God knows what was in that stuff. Bastard must have left it to blow up on purpose when we – Morse?”

 

Morse tried to answer, but again his throat had closed up. It felt like he had lost control of his own body – like everything he told it to do it did the opposite.

 

“Jesus, Morse, you’re shaking like a leaf.”

 

There was a blur of movement, as his head was lowered to the sofa and Thursday loomed over him. Morse flinched away as irrational fear, fear, fear, suddenly tattooed a drumbeat in his heart. He gasped for breath, needed to run, needed to get out of here. Everything hurt here.

 

“I’m going to ring for an ambulance,” he heard through a sea of jagged red waves, and then he was alone, and everything got worse.  

 

Gradually, sometime later, he became aware again. A hand was stroking soothingly over his forehead, a deep voice was saying his name over and over. It sounded weary. Morse frowned. “Morse?” The voice was sharper now, demanding. And it was a voice that he wanted to please. Tiredly, he opened his eyes. Thursday. “Decided to join us, have you?” Morse cast his eyes around for the other members of ‘us,’ but couldn’t see anyone. Figure of speech. God, he felt terrible.

 

“Got some bad news, I’m afraid,” Thursday said, his voice light and reassuring. “The phone line’s been cut, and our tires are slashed.” Morse held his eyes, trying to interpret this information. “Means we’re not going anywhere fast, lad,” Thursday added gently.

 

They sat for a few minutes in silence, Morse staring at the ceiling, Thursday sitting quietly beside him. The pain in his head seemed quieter now, and the colours in the room had returned to normal. Eventually Morse decided that things probably weren’t going to improve any further, and there was nothing to be gained by waiting. He said so to Thursday.

 

“Think you’re up to standing then?”

 

Morse rolled onto his side, and got his feet back onto the ground. As he pushed up from the sofa, he felt a flash of dizzy heat race from head to toe, and rocked back on his heels with a gasp.

 

“Morse?”

 

Still, he was standing. He took a step, another, and felt sweat break out on his face. All over, actually, like he was standing in a tropical rainforest. He stopped. Thursday stood at his elbow, a steady presence. Another source of heat. Morse closed his eyes for a second. God, he was so warm. He reached up to tug at the collar of his shirt, and hissed at the pain in his hand. He’d almost forgotten.

 

“We’ll go as slowly as you need to.”

 

Morse suddenly felt assured of the futility of his attempt, but made it one more step. Stopped again.

 

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

 

Thursday’s arm slipped around his waist. “Here, lean on me.” And Morse did, listing into the man’s body as though he’d lost all strength of his own. It felt so good. He inhaled deeply and the smell of laundered clothes and tobacco and Fred Thursday hit him. It was a wonderful smell. And Morse was immediately hard, achingly hard.

 

He straightened abruptly. “I think I might sit down again, sir.” Moving out of Thursday’s hold, he stumbled rapidly back towards the sofa. It seemed very far away now, more than three steps, but then his shins crashed into it and he tumbled thankfully into the cushions.

 

“-This won’t do, lad.” Thursday had been speaking since Morse had broken away from him, but like tuning into a radio his words came back into focus. And this was awkward, more than awkward, and Morse’s head really wasn’t in the right place, but he remembered enough to curl his knees up and hide his inconvenient erection. “We can’t stay here. Let’s try again. Come on, up with you!” Morse shook his head stubbornly.

 

Eventually, Thursday sat beside him again. He didn’t say anything else about Morse’s failed attempt. Talked about the case. Talked about his family. Talked about football.

 

Morse’s erection didn’t go away. It was nearing painful. Past painful. He couldn’t help shifting occasionally to get a little friction against it. But that was wrong, so wrong, with Thursday right there. He would be disgusted if he knew how hard Morse was. Some of the fuzziness from before started to creep back in.

 

“Sir, I think maybe you should try and make a break for it, while it’s still light.” His voice sounded rusty from his long silence.

 

Thursday was quiet for a minute. “Not a bad idea, lad, but I didn’t want to leave you while you were in such a bad way,” he said cautiously.

 

“S’alright,” Morse said. “I’ll be fine. I’m feeling much better. You can send a car back for me.”

 

It might have worked too, except that when Thursday got up the sofa dipped, and the movement made Morse cry out. He desperately tried to muffle the sound in his fist, but it was too late.

 

“You’re not alright, are you?” Thursday said with resignation.

 

“Well I’m not going to get any better, so you might as well get some bleeding help!” Morse said intemperately, blood pounding in his ears. He needed to touch himself so badly he was going to burst. He hurt, oh God, he hurt.

 

“Well how can I help when you won’t tell me what’s wrong?” Thursday said with equal frustration. Morse curled himself into a ball as much as possible. Thursday sighed. “Sorry, lad.”

 

Thursday made as if to leave. Morse was grateful, really he was, he wanted Thursday to go, wanted to be alone with this sharp ache and the crippling humiliation and the pain and the darkness. He must have made an involuntary sound though, and when he looked up Thursday was storming back towards him determinedly.

 

“That’s it. I’m taking a look at you. For all I know you’ve been injured and you’re hiding it and…” Thursday trailed off as he finished pulling Morse out straight, Morse fighting him feebly the whole way.

 

Morse watched Thursday’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, then he turned his face into the sofa cushion so that he didn’t have to see the other man’s face any more.

 

“Well.” Morse bit down on his lip as hard as he could so as not to make another noise. “You know…” Thursday trailed off, and then he coughed awkwardly.  Morse risked a glance up. Thursday looked deeply uncomfortable. “Well, wait a few minutes and-” Morse shook his head, and tried to convey a great deal with a look. Thursday sat back looking pole-axed, apparently having understood. “How long?”

 

“Since I sat back down.”

 

“Christ.”

 

“I think it must have been the stuff in the basement,” Morse said miserably.

 

Thursday turned away, and Morse tried to make a joke – not even a funny one. He wasn’t good with jokes. And then he couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t, he didn’t want to… His hand pressed down on his cock without his permission, and it was glorious, it was ecstasy, it was… really incredibly painful.

 

He made a noise as a thousand fiery lines burned across his palm and fingers, and pulled his hand away. Thursday had seen though. Morse felt shame flood him, shame, and want, and need, and -

 

“Please, sir,” he said without thinking. Please what, he didn’t know. Please forget you saw this, please never speak of this, please don’t think less of me, please just fucking touch me. Morse couldn’t read Thursday’s expression. His eyebrows were dark lines across his face, his mouth heavy at the corners. How had he sounded, Morse thought wildly, what had he said? “Sorry,” he rushed out “Sorry.”

 

And then there was a twist in his gut and the world slid edgeways in a blur of heat, and there was no place for the shame amongst the sheer need that gripped him. He could hear his own rasping breaths, desperate, fucking desperate, and then he was touching himself again and it scalded, but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. And it hurt, it hurthurthurthurthurt and then his wrist was gripped and pulled away and his voice rose in a frenzied wail.

 

“Stop it,” said Thursday harshly, grabbing his other wrist swiftly and holding them together in one hand, and Morse tried to bite down on the noise, tried to turn his head away, but he couldn’t stop. “ _Stop it_ , Morse, stop it.” He thrashed, caught, desperate, needing so badly, so much. “Stop it,” said Thursday again, but this time his voice was quieter, and seconds later his broad hand rested on Morse’s belly.

 

Morse arched his back instinctively, pushing against the warmth of Thursday’s hand, wanting to feel it on his skin rather than his shirt. Somehow that would make everything better. That would make the pain stop.

 

“Please,” he choked out. “Sir. _Please_.”

 

The hand pressed down firmly, and Morse slumped back onto the sofa, going still. His blood was pounding in his ears, his breath still fast and laboured, and he could feel the great wall of need still hovering  -but slightly more distant now. He felt all the things he felt a moment ago, but not so lost.

 

Thursday held his gaze, and deliberately slipped his hand under Morse’s shirt.

 

Oh, _Oh_. It was like stepping into a hot bath, he was immersed in warm, soothing bliss. He thought he must have moaned, made some embarrassing noise at least, but his head was tipping back and his mouth falling open and it felt so _good_.

 

Then Thursday released his wrists and brought his other hand down to unbutton Morse’s trousers, and Morse lost track of coherent thought all together.

 

The only thing he could remember clearly afterwards was Thursday’s voice, low and rough, telling him it would be alright, that he was going to be alright. Whenever Morse thought about it he blushed. And he had thought about it, frequently. He’d had the Friday off, because when he woke up in the morning he’d felt so exhausted and sick he couldn’t get out of bed. He would have just been sent home if he’d gone in anyway. Then the weekend, which had left him far too much time to think.

 

How could he possibly go in to work and face his DI while he was unable to forget the feel of the man’s hand sliding into his trousers? And the absolute fool he must have made of himself. Morse had never felt the need to share much of himself with others, and hated feeling exposed. Especially to a man he admired, that he wanted the respect of.

 

So he was determined, absolutely determined, that he would show no weakness when he went into the station. It would be as if nothing had ever happened, and, if he was very lucky, Thursday would act the same. Morse knew the inspector wasn’t the type to mock him, but that didn’t erase the twist of fear in his stomach. He would practice in the mirror, pretend he was greeting Thursday as he would on Monday, until he could say “Good morning,” and, “Anything for me, sir?” with equanimity. He would be alright. He had to be.


End file.
